


A Priest, A Warrior, and....uh....

by KristleTribble



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Alternate Universe - Medieval, Bandits & Outlaws, Cleric!Netherlands, Comedy, Developing Relationship, Family Feels, Fantastic Racism, Huldrekall!Norway & Iceland, M/M, Magical Realism, Patricide, Polyamory, Some Humor, Survival, Team Bonding, WIP, Wanderlust, Warrior!Denmark, World Travel
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-13
Updated: 2019-10-30
Packaged: 2020-01-12 19:33:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 7,126
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18453173
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KristleTribble/pseuds/KristleTribble
Summary: Laurens is a traveling cleric who sells his blessings for a living, nothing more or less.Magnus is a strong warrior with a comedic disposition to hide his inner darkness.On their very first journey together, as priest and bodyguard, they will be faced with a terrible situation. Shall they take action or continue on?What matters more, the connections you make or the profits you turn?[rating may be updated/changed][tags may be updated/changed][characters and relationships may be updated/changed]Shout-out to the APH Denmark Discord server for inspiring me with the idea of NedDenNor as a plausible ship!





	1. Just a Beginning

It wasn't any particular day that this story started on.

 

It wasn't specifically a Friday, or a Sunday, or a Tuesday, for all that matters.

 

The sun was neither gelid nor scorching, the wind neither caressing nor cutting.

 

Like all things, one must remember that this story has an end....but also a beginning.

 

Though not specific.

 

* * *

 

 

All he could think about was the absolutely fantastic aroma of rabbit as it wafted off the smoky pyre. Applewood, smelled like.

 

They hadn't had meat in days, Laurens thought. It would do them well to see a bit of protein on the bones, going on with all this hiking and truck. A rabbit was a knock off the block, something to make food seem so damn fantastic again.

 

Gods, how he somehow even missed the unassuming potato, something he'd be glad to see in a hinterland like this.

 

Think, a potato, the most unassuming piece of root to grow through the earth.

 

His mouth watered even more, fingers braiding a rope delicately as he sat in dire anticipation of a good rare meal.

 

The work in trapping paid off well, by all means. If you're convincing enough, you get to eat. That was the law of the wild, as many many before have had the audacity to fight and then bitterly learn for themselves, either through starvation, or with the rare helping hand of a fellow human.

 

Rabbit, the smallest of the hidden, but the biggest of the trapped.

 

Ironic, isn't it?

 

Magnus stumbled up from the stream downhill, wiping the water from his eyes where his straw dripped over. His boots clambered noisily through the fallen foliage lining the dry ground. "How's the catch?"

 

Laurens looked up from his ropework, leveling a steady stare. "Well enough. The rabbit's cooking slowly, wanted to save as much of that fat as I could." A quick glance at the hanging tray beneath the roast to see that it remained there.

 

"Ever the miser I see."

 

Magnus received a scoff in return. "You say that but we're starving, Magnus."

 

And Laurens received a smile... in return. "Wasn't meant in a bad way, fella."

 

They stared at each other briefly, before Rens turned back to his braiding. The sizzle of the meat turned a hunger anew inside Magnus' stomach, and he too now was feeling the same thing, an aching desire to eat meat again.

 

Magnus sighed, a clunk sounding from where he sat heftily down on a rock. His eyes traveled in boredom over to Rens, watching his companion continue his deft and focused work. His hands seemed so well composed, pale without wear, the hands of someone who normally didn't do this kind of layman's work.

 

The warrior looked at his own hands, calloused from wear, from battles and weather, from comedy and tragedy. He was already given to a briar's life, and felt accepting of that. He was prepared to continue struggling to survive, content with the existence he was eking out as a bodyguard for hire.

 

The very act of survival itself gave life meaning, for Magnus.

 

And yet, to him, Laurens was not of the same mindset.

 

This priest, or cleric, or whatever he called himself, Magnus could tell he was from a better-off lifestyle. It was by the way he addressed the issues they faced.

 

In the span of a week, Magnus had managed to figure out that much. He wasn't blind to all his ward was up to, this calm and steadfast Robin Hood figure who seemed to emanate a tepid sensibility.

 

Magnus wondered if there was something Rens was always keeping to himself.

 

"Mags. Is something of concern?" The cleric's fingers paused suddenly.

 

The warrior hummed and sat up straight, a ripple sending through his back as he stretched wide, like an upright lynx. "Nope, just thinking."

 

"Well..." Laurens stood to examine the roast closer. "Thinking is still something, ain't it?"

 

Magnus considered an ant that crawled along his boot, remaining silent, and still taking in the smell of rabbit. He listened to Rens fiddle with the tray, ever watching the ant now wander in and out of the various brown leaves on the ground.

 

A slight breeze ruffled up everything in a touch of autumnal spirit.

 

The tall priest rummaged through his pack and brought out two plates. "Rabbit's done."

 

"Mm."

 

Magnus watched as Rens lifted the crude stake, prying the meat off of the stick before tossing it far off down the hill, so as not to attract unwanted company.

 

Soon enough, they were digging into the small amount of meat that the rabbit afforded, with much gusto and famined ravishment.

 

Rens fought hard to savor every last bite.

 

Magnus....well...

 

...it's simplest to say that he was finished with his portion way before the other.

 

To get the most from his meal, the warrior fished around for a pouch in his pocket, pulling out of it a handful of ground nut, which he had hired a peasantwoman to grind for him a while back.

 

After pouring the handful into his mouth and taking a swig from his water-laden flask, Magnus proceeded to lick the remaining flour and rabbit fat from off his palms. In mid-action, he caught the eye of Rens watching him.

 

"Eh???"

 

The priest raised an eyebrow. "How can you stand to eat with such dirty hands?"

 

Oh, so that's what he was wondering about, huh?

 

Magnus grinned devilishly. "How can you stand to eat with such clean ones?"

 

Rens smirked. "It's why I haven't caught a severe illness."

 

Magnus smirked too. "And maybe that's why it takes you so long to eat too, 'cause you can't taste any flavor." He guffawed and slapped his high boot with crinkled gaze.

 

His stoic companion narrowed his own eyes, green like lichen.

 

Magnus wondered if the priest's personal life was just as boring as lichen.

 

Could it be that Rens was raised by lichen? Maybe that was why he was such a tidy person.

 

Lichen is tidy, Rens is tidy, seems like perfect logic. Therefore, in the Mags way of thinking, Rens must be lichen.

 

The look the warrior received during this humorsome train of thought was baleful, but either Magnus had tree bark skin or he just wasn't paying attention. Laurens continued to stare at him until he noticed, for a good solid moment.

 

When Magnus refocused, he chuckled heartily, muttering about plants under his breath. He turned his own eyes up to Laurens in mock mirth, making a silly face at him.

 

It got only sarcasm out of the cleric. "Seems I hired a jester by accident, I suppose we're defenseless now."

 

Mags' countenance turned petty and pouty then. "Hey now, that's spicy jester erasure! Let me be funny an' wield a damn sword why dontcha??!!"

 

Rens raised an eyebrow silently, simply rising to go clear their plates in the river nearby. He got two steps before Mags spoke up again.

 

"Hey wait, it's dangerous to go alone!"

 

Rens turned half-way and smiled slightly, continuing his walk. "Well someone's gotta watch the camp, fool."

 

Magnus pouted again and watched Laurens clamber over a log, before he disappeared over the curvature of the hillside.

 

In his absence, the warrior smothered the open flame and buried it deep in fresh dry earth, careful to cover the remains as evenly with foliage as possible. He watched a fox come up over the ridge to his right, and paused to consider its presence closely.

 

They would need to leave, soon enough.

 

Best that they just get on with the journey, after all.

 

XXX


	2. Key

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not sure whether I'll have a set schedule for posting chapters -- I'll probably post as the inspiration strikes me. Just know that I'm very much interested in continuing this idea!  
> Again, thanks for reading!!! :)

Remember how I told you that every story has a beginning?

 

Remember that I said that this story didn't have a special start, or even any specific day that it began on?

 

Well...

 

Be careful of underestimation, they say. Importance is in the eye of the beholder.

 

I suppose you get to decide for yourself where this story starts, hm?

 

* * *

 

Among the many memories that Laurens held in his mind, there was one that was particularly strong, perhaps the only one he was really quite fond of.

 

It wasn't a memory of family.

 

It wasn't a memory of a loved one.

 

It wasn't even anything he did, rather.

 

Some time way back then, when he was a younger lad still studying for his clerical powers, Rens met a strange old beggar on the road to the next town over.

 

He remembered many details about that 3 hour journey.

 

It was a misty day, cool and damp, with the lampposts shining, bastions of guidance against the impenetrable fog that plagued the doldrums. The air hung thick and fragrant with the smell of peat and horse manure -- a farmer's wagon ahead of him, taking fertilizer to market.

 

It wasn't like he minded the smell. He only minded the occasional small pile that jostled off the back of the cart -- he had made the mistake of wearing his best shoes for travel. After all, one must be a little wiser when it comes to managing the footwear.

 

There was always the decision of charisma or endurance, unless you were the sort of fellow who was poor enough to be waived of the decision outright.

 

And, certainly, Laurens was not of that kind of stock. He aspired to carry himself with a kind of dignity which was not normally common among those born into the lower class.

 

He strove to rise the ranks, to better his living conditions. He dreamed of luxury.

 

...

 

Perhaps that is why this memory is so special to him.

 

Just outside of the neighboring village, after he had lost sight of the farmer's manure cart, an old sort of hobo materialized out of the thick fog.

 

His decrepit frame was hunched over on the back of an old apple crate, toes jagged and peeking out from under the holey covers on his ancient leather boots...

 

...you know, if one still calls toeless boots as validated boots.

 

Rens wouldn't have made any important remark of the man otherwise, save for the rather odd statement that the beggar passed on to him as he strode by.

 

"Today's a great day for love and beauty."

 

It caught him very much off guard, that statement. Laurens felt compelled to backtrack and ask the man to explain himself.

 

So he did just that. He was very much confused. "What?"

 

He listened carefully, rebalancing his satchel's weight on the broad shoulders of his frame.

 

"Today..." The old man coughed. "...is a great day. For love. And beauty."

 

"I heard you the first time, but why are you saying that?" Rens could already feel himself becoming exasperated.

 

"Why? Well...." The old man coughed again, and began to reach for the pockets of his worn trenchcoat. "Well, you see, there's a certain kind of beauty in everything, young man..."

 

He coughed again. "Oh devil's rats, I can't smoke in this weather after all. Nevermind."

 

"Yeah yeah, but why say that to me of all people?"

 

And this is the moment that the conversation changed tone, for the older man stood up on his creaking knees and held out a small rusty key to Laurens.

 

"This is the key to my house, young man. I've no family to pass this onwards, they've all up and left me."

 

Rens hesitated. He was unsure of whether to take this fellow's word or not. One must be cautious of these sorts of people, he was told, for they could destroy your reputation in a single instant, by framing you for a crime you'd never committed in your life.

 

So it was told to him.

 

He decided to prompt the old fellow. "Why?"

 

The beggar tipped his cap, water sloshing down the brim where it had gathered. It was a strange cap, made not of leather or weave, but of entirely raw bark, where Rens half-expected a mushroom to grow from it.

 

The cleric-in-training could vaguely make out the outline of moss which drooped off the back side of the bark cap.

 

So it was that the old man happened to be a hermit as well, but this wasn't in the working knowledge of young Laurens, and so he was not expecting the answer that he got.

 

"Well you see, I am but an exile, after all. I'm not allowed to return to my home, where I've all my riches kept. That is, as many riches as could begotten of an old fart such as myself."

 

The old man's arm began to tremble, as he continued to offer up the key with all his strength.

 

The sounds of the rain in the countryside drowned out the silence following the hermit's statement. Rens, his hair dripping in the fog, was unsure of what to say.

 

But it would not be required of him to say anything more, for it was the fellow on the apple cart who took up the conversation's direction once more.

 

"Please take it. I'd rather not let my possessions be passed on to another stubborn old fool like myself. The things need fresh guidance on their journeys, something--"

 

He paused to cough again, a bit harsher. Rens wondered how long the man had been sitting out in the rain.

 

"...The things need someone with a new perspective, young'un."

 

"And that's supposed to be me, I assume." Rens furrowed his brows calmly, but with a hint of worry that permeated the moisture on his face.

 

On the outside, Rens had all the features indicative of a fast-growing lad of the later teenage years -- not precisely scrawny, yet also not entirely buff. He seemed to sit at a happy medium all-of-its-own, tall and narrow. Built quite as a tower might be, with defined muscles and a gaunt face.

 

The only fresh perspective he was getting was puberty. That was it.

 

The old fool's face lit up. "Of course! Now you're getting right into the spirit, my boy!"

 

Oh, well this could become problematic.

 

"And if I said no to you?" Rens tested the waters.

 

"Then I and you and _everyone else_ lose everything."

 

It was a chilling statement on the part of both of them, but Rens didn't understand why. No, he was certainly confused. Entirely confused.

 

This whole interaction was putting him on edge, for certain.

 

"Why everyone else?"

 

"Because I'll be dead soon, of course!" The beggar grinned sadly and sat back down, resting his arm on his knee, key still held out in the misty rain. "If you don't get it, then I can't fathom who would."

 

"So I'm your only hope."

 

"Yes lad, that you are. 'Tis why today's a great day for love and beauty. Because, as it were..."

 

The kind hermit coughed again before continuing. "Damn whooping. Anyways, as it were, you're my hope."

 

Rens wasn't sure how to respond to the plea of the old fellow. He was sure now that it wasn't precisely a trap, but yet another conundrum arrived anew: would Laurens take the key from this strange old man or no?

 

He stood stock still for a solid minute, considering the old man closely, warily.

 

Then the young cleric stepped forward, and slowly took the rusted metal up from the worn hands of the man.

 

The beggar's reaction was instantaneous. There in the mist, his eyes shone dull but proud, finally at peace with himself. His frame relaxed and fully hunched over, there on the old rotting apple crate, he seemed to almost cave in like a landslide.

 

Rens watched, key in his grasp, as the hermit openly wept in his tearful expression.

 

"Young man... I've done terrible things that no one should need to be a part of. I've been a criminal, an adulterer, a cheat, a liar... none of these things make me any worthy for mercy at your hands." His crumpled face looked up again at Laurens, old grey meeting lightning green.

 

"I'm aware of that. I'm still taking the key and going to your house though."

 

The old man's lips quivered, but he remained silent.

 

"Where is your house, by the way?"

 

The old man motioned for the lad to bend over and listen to a whisper, after which the direction of the key was understood on both parts.

 

Rens looked on down the road, seeing the fog beginning to lift as the sun rose higher. "If you've not much else to say, I'd best be on my way. Studies." He took a few steps down the road, readjusting his satchel again.

 

The hermit nodded with intentional respect. "....young man, before you go on to continue with your life..."

 

Rens sighed and stopped again, fighting the snappiness away from his voice. "Yes, what?"

 

"...thank you with everything this old soul's got. I can die in peace now."

 

"...alright."

 

And soon Laurens was once more on the road's way into the village.

 

* * *

 

As with many other things, the memory of the old beggar is something that flits in out of Rens' mind, much like a favorite concubine of an emperor, unladen with any specific restrictions.

 

The cleric trusted himself to not forget the old man.

 

After all, the key and house were the direction of his travels currently.

 

...

 

It was why he hired Magnus.

 

XXX


	3. Run

Those in danger will always find their solace in the most unexpected of places.

 

But they must work hard.

 

They must push themselves to take the nearly impossible into their hands, dear reader.

 

If you give up, if you quit, that is always the worst.

 

If you give up, if you quit, that is the true danger that you deal yourself.

 

* * *

 

The leaves above culled away the rain, restricted access to the ground, dripping, hindering, falling, pointedly in puddles and eddies down the valley side. The misting made the air cold and bitter, crisp to breathe. Crystalline.

 

Amongst the dense and naked elms and maples, Mags ran without any care for silence or obeisance to stealth. He was on the run, and speed was more of importance than all else.

 

He was being hunted.

 

He was being wanted.

 

The leather and steel hilt of his short-sword slapped harshly against the back of his calves, leaving bruising in parallel fashion. A shifting burn ran throughout his legs, harsh, push on, never let stamina be your weakness.

 

That was what his father had always told him.

 

You're not allowed to show pain, or others will take advantage of it.

 

Run faster, run harder.

 

And that he did.

 

Magnus felt as if his lungs were being roasted live over the peak of a charcoal pit, excruciating fire, black thick smoke, though no such thing was in sight.

 

His legs stumbled on, narrowly surpassing roots, brambles, thick clottages of leaf and stone.

 

There was a river ahead. If he could get there and swim downstream, he might have a chance at getting away for good. But how far was unknown.

 

Mags, as always, was going to give it a try. He had all the balls in the world for it. The damnedest best was his motto.

 

His life was on the line.

 

The bare minimum was the high maximum.

 

Keep on. Keep on. Keep on.

 

This he repeated in his head, push the limits, survive, live, contin--

 

Magnus cried out as his boot snagged fast in the hollow of an aged spindly oak root, seemingly hell-bent on ending his misery right then and there. He scrambled wildly to pull up, keep going, though his calves felt as wobbly as an ill-built bridge.

 

His fingers began to bleed from cutting on the oak bark, and yet the pain seemed minuscule compared to the rest of Mags' problems.

 

The teen sprang on, sliding down a hillside with little grace and barely enough stability to keep off an avalanche of leaves which tumbled after the poor fellow. Gods, if his life wasn't in danger, one could have laughed at him going.

 

Eventually he found his center of balance and leaped across a fledgling murmuring brook, coursed anew from the downpour.

 

He was close. The dim cries of the water on the banks were coming closer, escape, life, resurgence of hope.

 

Magnus fought on, his breath dying inside his heaving lungs.

 

Don't stop to look back. They'll see the whites of your eyes.

 

Target practice, Magnus. Target practice.

 

He felt his thoughts beginning to derail with the starvation of oxygen, his vision going fuzzy and reddish as he wheezed on through the underbrush, the winter foliage dead on the ground.

 

Waves of five-point maples and dead ash leaves kicked up in front of him as he struggled along, eventually coming to land on ground, on ground, on root, on --

 

Water!

 

Water, he cried out in anguish, pausing to regain a bit of strength.

 

Looked in panic for a log to float on, to use to paddle downstream.

 

Quickly quickly, down and away, live on to see another summer!

 

With all the desperation of a stalked deer, Magnus leaped directly into the frigid water, the sword wanting to tug him down into the depths, struggling to stay afloat on the wood which generously granted him respite.

 

The piece was too narrow to straddle for his broad frame, so he was forced into making do with the hand he was dealt, arms now carrying the brunt of the effort in keeping him from drowning, hurrying away beyond the banks, away from danger, away from a certain sense of condemnation and tremendous death.

 

What he would give to be able to roam freely again.

 

His breath heaved painstakingly up from his throat, temples buzzing, the eddies and whorls of the river's surface hypnotizing to the young lad.

 

Mags, he struggled to stay awake, much as he knew how, this was his only option, not a choice at that point, it was a struggle for tooth and nail, and whether nature would have pity on his poor bereft soul that was cast out of society.

 

His hair, not yet long enough to cover his eyes, stuck wildly downwards, as if a power was compelled to sink both it and the fellow down into the depths, wildly, tremendously, out to seek the destruction of everything keeping him alive.

 

Float on, but the push of the current sent him spinning harder as he went on down the river's tide.

 

He thought briefly, for a split second, about how the rangers might follow him downstream. Hopefully they didn't have their birds of prey in escort.

 

If they did, this was pointless. Water could deter dogs, but never the mighty hunters that roamed the vast cold skies. The wind was his weakness.

 

Bless his poor danger-ridden soul. He was trying so hard to survive.

 

The log, before too long, caught on the opposite side of the river, riptides disrupting the current at a bend, and Mags was quick to grab onto the muddy bank like it was a friend he had not met in years of silence.

 

It was a shortly celebrated reunion, Magnus using the log as leverage to kick himself up and over the now collapsing bank, clambering up the hillside as his wooden lifeline was swept farther downstream yet again, minus one passenger.

 

The foliage began to give way as he finally emerged over the crest of the rise. Before he fully registered where he stopped, his back found shelter against the hollow of a thick hazel leaning slight and bare over the riverside, a relative paradise in trying times.

 

He sat there and shivered, dripping wet on the ground, never thinking of counting his blessings.

 

Hopefully that would be enough.

 

Hopefully that was a deterrent for those hardcore blood-mongers. He felt that he deserved to live longer, he was thrown this lifeline, at least, at least.

 

He calmed his breathing. Tried to listen through the now deafening silence, his metal at the ready, hands clammy.

 

It was the worst feeling that a person could feel. Being trapped. Humans are free spirits, especially when they least realize it.

 

It was the worst that Magnus could feel, in accordance with his pain. But...

 

...the second worst feeling that he had at the moment was almost equally as cruel, if it weren't for the specificity that it employed. It was the utter contextualization that bound Mathias around the throat as a constant noose, the feeling from why precisely he was on the run in the first place.

 

Through the misty frost-season air, a crow of some ilk called out, before flitting past in the treetops. Another called in like kind, and they quarreled against one another, before engaging in a duel of the claws.

 

Mags burrowed himself into the tree hollow, rummaging up leaves and branches to half-hide himself in. His cuts stung with the wet dirt, mushrooms growing near the inner back next to his shoulder, the wetness of his cloak causing him to shiver in misery.

 

He listened wearily to the sound of the crows fighting, waiting, painfully anxious and tired.

 

The noose which bound his throat leapt into his veins at the signal of the memory. That singular angle, reason, perpetuation, of why he needed to escape.

 

He was being hunted.

 

He was being wanted.

 

Wanted.

 

Wanted for murder.

 

It's the truth.

 

Magnus was the one who killed his father.

 

XXX


	4. Bond

Have you ever felt something strange, something so wonderful that you were convinced it was from another world?

 

Do you think that such an experience is felt by everyone who dwells in this world?

 

..................

 

Hm. That's a valid answer. As for me? Well...

 

There are always things which are beyond our perceptions.

 

* * *

 

Night surrounds the both of them with her veil, the rain pouring somewhere out there in a heave of natural wonder. Here, here, amidst the sweet scent of snowdrops, in the hole of a tree hollow, there is a wonderful sense of family, of clinging to one another to brave the scary world around them.

 

A youthful soul holds his baby brother close in his arms, listening fondly to the percussive titter of water on the leaves around them. The forest going through her cycle of grief. He can sense the anxiety of the trees around them, the roots scared and the bark mystified. His orbed eyes blink slowly in the sheer lack of light.

 

He runs a delicate, clawed hand along the other's back, listening to the babe snore away, in his innocent way. There are so many things he wants to teach this child about the world, but everything is so cold and unforgiving. He desires for his ward to thrive. But he knows it can't happen.

 

Somewhere in the pervasive darkness, there is the shrill cry of a barn owl, and the fellow's heart begins to ache at the stimulation. He buries his nose into the soft hair of his sibling with a small sense of desperation, clinging to the other. Trying to shelter him with warmth.

 

The trees are scared of being chopped for wood, for man fuel. This he feels, he hears in the reverberation of his soul in the dampness of the hollow, the smell of peat.

 

He is rightly fearful of humans and their conceited ways. And so is the forest.

 

He is rightly fearful of humans and their selfish ways. And so is the child, though the babe knows it not.

 

The older sibling runs a hand through his curly, flaxen hair, scratching at an itch in his scalp.

 

The feelings of the roots around him make him feel only physically safe. Their strife calls out to him and feeds into his fear.

 

He shuts his eyes away to sleep, but a memory burns upon his lids.

 

He remembers the moment when this small, seemingly harmless creature came into existence, the powers of the forest contributing to bestow their magic, into giving the child form. It is the normal way of how souls are given shape, freed of so-called blood ties that humans so pathetically cling to.

 

There is magic, strength to be given from the trees. The older sibling witnessed this firsthand, and he can tell anyone who cares how it all played out, from the moment he was almost stricken by lightning, to the heated miasma in the air, to the pale fetus he discovered nestled in deceived comfort, atop a brambling bush of thorns.

 

And he remembered the searing soul-fire which coursed through him, when he rose to the noble cause of taking the babe as his ward. A bond established by the beauty and terror of magic inconceivable to the human mind.

 

It was a natural process, and he had seen births of his kind before, but when _he_ came into being, it felt as if a natural disaster had stricken for all of a long moment.

 

As if this time, the trees were struggling to give up their power to create a beautiful new life.

 

So therefore, this newborn is the herald of a coming dark time, when the trees will struggle to survive.

 

The fellow, like all others with sentience, he feels loneliness. And though he is unbelievably grateful to hold the babe beside him, to take up the honor of guiding his spirit in the mortal world... he also feels a sense of dread, because in his weary soul he _knows_ that the child is unnatural in some way, whether by origin or by context.

 

His bond with him is deep and filled with the anguish of the trees. And it is, perhaps, for this reason that he is so sensitive to the aching pain of the oaks, and the weeping of the willows, and the searing fury of the cypresses.

 

For they all sound like the cry of his brother.

 

With his snow-white hair. With eyes so hued as man-wine. The beholder of fear.

 

But a child, still learning how to walk.

 

The older grieves and hugs his sibling to the crook of his bare neck, feeling incredibly vulnerable with his emotions. Brought face to face with them, and forced to acknowledge it all in a genesis of enlightenment about their circumstances.

 

* * *

 

The sun smiles upon everything kindly, a cool mist hanging upon the bright spring air like baby's breath. Spruce, and oak, and the trees all bear witness to what is about to happen. Squirrels stop in their ministrations of the seed, the birds fall silent in bated breath, everything, everything, senses the approaching rise of magic.

 

The older sibling's vibrant eyes take in the old stony tunnel up on the rise, looming as a connection to the other world, the realm of men. It is an ancient portal, conceived by elder spirits, the direct descendants of older gods, and before them, the imperceptibly primal one. It's a lineage that he is vaguely aware of, and makes an incantation in gratitude to every time he uses it.

 

There are lilies, pure and white, which line the path leading up the knoll, and he keeps his charge alongside him as he walks along. By which means, the quiet hold of a small grubby hand in the slim one of the older. A dove perches at the barrier, looking inquiringly down at the two of them.

 

The older has a great sense of pride within him, for today, today is the vernal equinox, and it is time to teach and show the innocent lad how to use his magic, so that he might be able to give back to the trees.

 

The ways of casting illusions. The tactics that he can employ for his own survival. He will demonstrate the cruel and unfortunate reality that they live in.

 

The necessity of troll art.

 

How men are mislead by their ways, and need to be shepherded back to the embrace of the forest. How the humans must seek the truth of their selfish existence.

 

The guiding brother smiles down fondly as they approach the gateway, the deep tunnel dark and dank, where no light can ever reach. The young child stares frightfully into the unknown and clings to a pale leg, his tiny tail swishing in anticipation.

 

The older sibling's heart beats in confidence, in juxtaposition, for he is well aware of how easy it is to be in fear of what is unknown. But this is a trail he has worn into habit, and he knows that the vast majority of the time, there is no such thing as danger.

 

Though his skin stands bare, and pale, and in the eyes of an unsuspecting human, naked, the blond and curly-haired older sibling knows that he has no reason to be vulnerable in this moment. What this is, this is simply the way of life.

 

His grip firms around the smaller's soft hand, passing the utter lack of fear in his spirit directly on to the other. Establishing an emotional overlay of support, of comfort, upon their already deep bond.

 

Berry red irises meet upon woad blue ones. And once this is known, that there is nothing to fear, the older lets the younger enter the tunnel first, following by loyalty.

 

And it is the first time that the child knows the difference between himself and everything else.

 

XXX


	5. Trap

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been way too long since I updated this, holy hell. Sorry for the wait everyone!!

In coming together for the first time, strangers see many new things about each other.

 

The chains of friendship are both tested and wrought by comings together.

 

And also, dangerous things happen.

 

The winds of change are fickle winds indeed.

 

Who knows what lurks around the next corner, hm?

 

* * *

 

"Seventy-yards crossing. Looks to be about that long, venture even more given the damn fog."

 

Mags lowered his spyglass and squinted again through the mist, which seemed to throttle and choke the land with persistent puffs of moisture, the humidity dense in this godforsaken cold bog. The sun was somewhere playing shadow games with everything, throwing Magnus' sense of direction off-kilter, an irritating move on nature's part.

 

The cleric stood beside him and sized up the gully, where a rope bridge had been taken out at some point. He racked his brain for a mental map, an intense hurdle beyond the dust of yesteryear's books and cartographic study.

 

Where was it, precisely, that the old hermit had his residency?

 

With the description which was given that fateful day, Rens could not have foreseen this outcome, even if his wisdom had done naught but grow since then. But of course, of course it was so, that the bridge would be down and out by the time he would make it up this way. It had been a good four cycles, at least that, since he obtained the rusted key and accepted the strangely imperative request.

 

Rens' distant gaze summoned a font of concern from his companion, who nudged his robed shoulder playfully. "Hey, you doing alright? Don't go an' astral project on me like that, freaks me the hell out."

 

"Not astral projecting. That's a miracle I don't know."

 

"Well what's your deal then?"

 

"Give me a moment, will you?" Rens replied in a snap, his eyes fetching over to throw Magnus a wilted look of 'piss-off' energy.

 

Mags huffed and derisively plopped himself down on the rocky precipice that they had climbed, glum and gloomy with the turn of things. "And you're dead-ass certain that there's something worth it over there."

 

Rens' green gaze flitted down to his bodyguard, tone frigid. "Hold your tongue and be patient. There will come a solution if we are vigilant and faithful."

 

There was something that spiraled off about this area, the cleric felt, something unnerving and foreign. Beyond deja vu. Beyond basic unfamiliarity.

 

Mags huffed again when Rens finally sat down beside him, staring at him with an essence of relief. And yet he spoke nothing, for the man was in the telltale signs of one of his little 'magic' trances or whatever the hell he called them, meditation, or something like that.

 

The man zoned out plainly on another ant crossing his boot, but this time Mags was thinking in a different light -- thinking about nothing, to be precise, simply closing his eyes. He sat holding his chin in his broad and dirty hands, with a faint chingle of the chain-mail trickling down his torso.

 

Cricket chirps, bird calls.

 

Just when Magnus was about to speak up again, to ask when they would camp and take lunch, there came a low tremor in the ground far beneath them.

 

The blonde shot up to standing, hands going to the scabbard of his claymore on instinct. His ears perked and trained for approaching horse-foot, an earthquake, an avalanche, what the hell is it?!

 

Rens' eyes widened as he touched the trembling ground in awe. This....this was no mundane power.

 

The cleric was soon standing beside his bodyguard, voice low and ominous. "Lower your stance and follow me, quickly. We have no time to waste."

 

Mags took a careful step backwards. "What do you mean?? What's going on with the ground?"

 

Laurens huffed derisively, shaking his head and furrowing his brow. "Just shut up dumbass, and follow me, or we'll miss the opportunity of a lifetime."

 

* * *

 

He backed against the wall, the cold wetness of the rocks pressing into his bare and pale skin like the points on an iron maiden. Fear was filling a power in his veins.

 

Today didn't forecast the union of a water and earth elemental, but it happened anyway, and the poor creature, he was now up against one bank side, desperately pleaded with the old gods to come to his aid, that he deserved to live!

 

The mutant elemental re-emerged from the stagnant river surrounding his feet, grasping at his ankles with the tendrils of a million slimy mudballs, cat-tails for fingernails, the gleam of crystals in its eyes glinting in the faded sunlight.

 

A disgusting, black abomination that had absorbed the pollutants of man.

 

It smiled at the older brother, tongue made of river sediment hanging out of its mouth, dragging along the surface of the mud as it went.

 

The blonde held his breath and retreated farther up onto the rocky bank, heels flat against the smooth stones behind.

 

Then all quite suddenly, the bright air screamed with the shrill cry of a twelve- summers old boy, leaping off of the wall and landing with claws and bristled tail right smack dab in the midst of the heaving goop pile.

 

The sludge-faced monster heaved and flipped over, engulfing the innocent child in its ichor body, the cherub face of the attacking boy now no longer reflecting pink in the light of the waxing early autumn sun.

 

His brother screamed, and immediately leaped from the rockside.

 

Fear could not keep him from trying to wrestle his beloved sibling from the tremendous viscosity of the elemental, his veins fired with adrenaline and the fury of a hundred forest spirits. Before he could blink an eyelash, this anger erupted from his pale palms in a devastating rush of magic.

 

* * *

 

Magnus stopped and backed up out of the quagmired river bed, feeling another powerful vibration ricochet up through his legs, from the swampy dirt and grass below. Laurens looked at him in curiosity, but the cleric soon felt it too.

 

They shared a confused look together, before Mags' eyes widened and he grabbed his ward's arm, sliding the taller man up the sloping grass in a rapid, fluid movement. The both of them barely scuttled away in time to see the remnants of where they were standing swept away by a sudden whitewater rush.

 

The blonde warrior cursed the name of a god under his breath, standing to look farther up the ford. "...was that...." Magnus looked down at his companion, whose normally stoic face was in awe as well.

 

"Magic," Rens finished. "Magic, yeah that's what it was." The green-eyed man also rose to his feet, carefully sliding down to the now receding water line. He stooped and scooped some into his hands, marveling as the liquid began to evaporate away almost instantly.

 

Without further hesitation, the riverbed had become the same as it had been -- muddy, sticky, only like firmer quicksand.

 

But then something else came up through the air, this time a cry.

 

Magnus immediately took off up the hillside, circling around the smallish bluff so he could see the source of the noise.

 

"Mags!!" The cleric bellowed after him, without luck. Rens was forced to follow his bodyguard, feeling annoyance and unease filling his form, long legs thumping up the dewy banks after, stumbling by his boots. "Magnus, hold on for a damned moment will you?!"

 

* * *

 

The brother held his younger sibling close to his body, feeling the cold swish of his tail, the limp and ragged breathing of the soiled and mud-ridden boy. He gasped and cradled the snowy hair close to his face.

 

At least he was breathing, and that elemental had been fully washed away. It could have been so much worse.

 

But danger was still present.

 

He felt rather than heard the loud footsteps of a human warrior approaching them.

 

The elder brother quickly stood and heaved his unconscious ward over his shoulders, feeling a spritely energy coursing through his bare legs, hitting through the damp swampy air with fright.

 

A voice called after. "WAIT!!"

 

Keep going. Keep going. This was never supposed to happen.

 

Run!!! Faster!!!

 

The blond cried out as his foot snagged into a quagmire, the land turning against him and seizing, twisting his ankle. His baby brother tumbled off his pale back into the mud beside him, startling awake to the chaos.

 

Fearful cobalt eyes met innocent wine ones.

 

Run my child. Flee!!

 

And the boy begrudgingly did, his tail swishing and claws clambering up the grassy slopes, into the mire and dead brush, going like a fox.

 

The older watched him go with an ache in his heart, and tears streamed from his shuttered eyes.

 

* * *

 

Magnus caught his breath as the creature he was chasing finally stopped. Rens was soon beside him, worse for wear.

 

"What....huff....what is that...?" The warrior pointed at the strange humanoid.

 

The cleric bristled, and immediately fetched sealing powder from his satchel. "An enemy of mankind."

 

A blond-haired head turned to face the two of them with mysterious and other-worldly irises, and beneath it was a back comprised of a hollow, much like a busted oak trunk. A twitchy and restless cow tail came out even farther down, licking at the mud with frenetic anguish. And even twitchy, pointed ears, like those of the fabled elven race to the far northwest.

 

Mags furrowed his brow and his hand went to his weapon, the claymore coming out easily into his palms. "Do we kill it?

 

Laurens narrowed his green eyes as the creature studied him.

 

"It's a hulder. Of course we do."

 

XXX

**Author's Note:**

> *claps hands together*  
> ....yes.  
> If you're reading this, it must mean I'm doing something right.  
> Comments? Welcome. Always. Forever. I love you already just for clicking the link to read this! You already mean so much to me.  
> ....how else can I express that I appreciate you guys???? Uh. Thank you. That'll do. Thank you!  
> See y'all next chapter!


End file.
